All Roads Lead to Rome
by Phoenix Force
Summary: Based on the Susan Kay novel...She needs help and the only place she can turn is to her father's cryptic descriptions of a strange masked boy. But will the pain of losing Christine keep Erik in Paris or will he travel once more to Rome.
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: I don't own the Phantom of the Opera and I'm not making any money off of this.

Author's Note: This story is based off of the Susan Kay novel. I've tried to stay true to the story that she presented. Reviews are very much welcomed. I hope you enjoy.

Chapter One: Trinkets in the Cellar

Sophia

Italy, 1881

I never ventured into the cellar. My sister, Luciana, had been dead for thirty-six years, my father for thirty-five. Upon his death, my father had left me his home much to the surprise of my four older sisters. However, in his will, he explained his reasoning. The other four had their own homes and families. He understood the loneliness that comes from dedicating your life to one purpose. It was his attempt to make up for what I would never have.

Marriage wasn't an option for me. By the time I was fifteen, I was so immersed in architecture, masonry, and landscaping that I failed to notice the opposite sex. My father tried to warn me what single mindedness could lead to, but he was intelligent enough to recognize passion when he saw it. He told me one time, as he lay dying, that he had seen true passion only once in his life.

That was the first I had ever heard of the strange masked boy that been my father's apprentice for three years. I never understood the way he spoke about the boy he called Erik, with such reverence, pain and pride. He had grabbed my hand and made me promise, should Erik ever cross my path to respect his wishes and leave the mask alone. It was then that I believed Erik to be nothing more than a delusion from an old man who felt the presence of death. But that didn't stop me from asking a question that had been plaguing me for a year.

"Did Erik kill Luciana?"

He started coughing and I calmly waited the attack out. Every time a fit wracked his body, I swore I could feel my own lungs tightening. I had given him a drink of water and he finally settled somewhat.

"No, Sophia, Erik didn't kill Luciana. Her own foolishness, as well as mine, killed her."

I rubbed his hand in support. "Alright, Papa."

"Listen to me, Sophia," he grabbed hold of my arm in a surprisingly strong grip. "If you ever meet him, do not be as foolish as I once was. Allow him his secrets and do not ask him for things he's not willing to give you freely."

"Yes, Papa." I agreed heartily with him and that seemed to soothe him. The morning after our brief conversation about Erik, I found my father dead. I became consumed with funeral arrangements and dealing with estate procedures that all thoughts of the mysterious boy in the mask fled from my mind.

I tried to carry on my father's masonry business with the same efficiency he had, but his men did not want to take orders from a woman, whether she was Master Giovanni's daughter or not. Most quit within the first month. The only men who were willing to work for me where those who were starving or were completely faithful to my father. But soon, those who were faithful soon died from the similar fate that my father suffered.

I thought I had found the answer when a fellow classmate from the university I had attended for architecture offered his services of contractor. I gladly accepted his offer of help and soon my father's once dying business had blossomed once more. The men took their orders from the contractor, never believing that the orders came from me. But the jobs had been getting done. Or so I thought.

It wasn't until I started receiving notes in the mail from customers wondering when their home, restaurant or hotel was going to be completed. I went personally to all the sites and investigated the progress. Little had I known, the jobs that my trusted classmate had told me were completed were far from completion. Personally, I was responsible for nine unfinished buildings. When I confronted him with this breach of conduct, he walked out and took over three-quarters of my workforce.

Trying to save face, I sold my father's treasured house, so I would have some funds to finish the buildings that were promised. I had a two room apartment that was not quite in the poor section of Rome. It would have to do for now. But it was the unfortunate move that sent me into the basement. It was then that I knew the Erik from my father's deathbed confession was real.

Trinkets covered in dust lined the back wall of the basement where my mother had kept her preserves. Putting down the small box I had brought with me, I went over with insatiable curiosity to investigate these strange objects. Bits of coil and metal made up most of the items. There were a few models as well, which I quickly gathered from their stance that they were done in an architecture type experiment. Most likely they were constructed to test support and bracing. They were ingenious to say the least and I knew that neither my father nor my sisters would have the presence of mind to create such detailed things. That only left one other explanation.

Erik.

If he did exist, I wondered if he was still alive. If he was, perhaps he could help me in my current predicament. Whenever my father spoke about him it was always with a reminiscent fondness. As my eyes roved over the intricate specimens, my mind toiled over how to reach him. Deep in thought, I quickly placed all the metal workings into the box I had brought with me. I didn't know what I was going to do with the spinet, so that was sold with the house. Judging from the complexity of the inventions, my imagination could not even comprehend the music that must have been played on the spinet. The cellar no longer felt like a mere cellar, rather it had the atmosphere of a room that had housed a genius.

Carrying the box of trinkets and a bag of my clothes through the piazzas of Rome to my apartment, headlines on a newspaper caught my attention. The chandelier in the Paris Opera House had fallen, killing many Opera goers. The lead soprano and her lover disappeared and were not found again. The instigator of the abduction was sighted as sporting a mask and had the reputation of being the "Opera Ghost." Pulling some money out of my pocket, I bought the paper and read the rest of that article during my walk.

It was filled with eyewitness accounts of the masked menace as well as the fall of the mighty chandelier. The last half of the article was an interview with the managers who spoke of rebuilding the Opera House and carrying on the business as nothing had happened. By the time I had reached my apartment, I was certain that I had located Erik. That night by lamplight I composed my letter and mailed it the following morning. I only hoped that I hadn't been too brash in my decision. I sincerely prayed that the Opera Ghost was indeed the Erik my father spoke so fondly of in his dying days.


	2. What Became of the Scorpion?

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Phantoms so please don't sue me.

Author's Note: Many many thanks to my reviewers…You guys have no idea what reviews me to me. And a special note to Korapersonality: thank you so much for you review! I really appreciated your comments and because of what you wrote, you really inspired Sophia's letter to Erik. And I do realize that it was a little easy for her to find Erik, but I figured if I made it hard, the story would be really dull. I do hope that you continue reading and keep on throwing those reviews at me!

Chapter Two: What Became of the Scorpion?

Erik

A month had passed since _she_ had left. I shook my head as I wandered the burned out Opera house that once had been my realm. Thirty days had slipped through my fingers as I immersed myself in sleep and morphine. Twenty years of work was strewn across my living room floor. Even if I had wanted to start work on another piece I wouldn't have been able to since I had stupidly destroyed my pipe organ. The opera was in such a state that there was nothing of value worth stealing in an attempt to rebuild my home.

Good, faithful, old Nadir had stayed by my side for the past month. Whenever I wished for death, I heard him praying in his native tongue to Allah to have mercy on me. Whether he was praying for my life to be spared or to be finally ended, I don't know. He didn't seem too surprised to find me up and about one day, seemingly recovered from my seizures. He merely accepted my recovery with quiet acceptance just as he had accepted everything that had transpired in the horrid twenty-four hour period of time.

It was Nadir that suggested I inspect what was left of the Opera. Reconstruction had already started though they were nowhere near completion. Most of the burnt and singed wood had been dragged out and scaffolds had been erected. I found I didn't have to be as quiet as before with the sounds of hammers and workman's conversation to cover the sounds of my footsteps. Thankfully, most of my secret passageways had remained untouched.

I soon found myself underneath the floorboards of the manager's office. Both were in that day and discussing the cost of the renovations. Judging from the sounds above my head, Firmen was pacing and Andre was merely sitting at his desk. The rustle of paper made me believe that the post had arrived and the shorter of the two men was sorting through it.

"Andre, how can we afford the renovations? We were already pushing the line with the finances before the…incident. Now, we've lost our biggest patron and our lead singer."

I stifled an ironic laugh. The loss of Chaney and La Carlotta was not as terrible to me as it was to them. But if money was an issue with the renovations, then I could most likely guarantee that my salary of twenty thousand francs would not be paid. Andre gave an uproarious yell that caused both Firmen and myself to jump out of our skins.

"Can you believe this?" he raved. I would have given anything to see him at this moment. Andre was always quick of temper and became flustered at the littlest thing. That was the main reason I sent him the most threatening notes. I enjoyed his reactions.

"What is it, Andre?"

"A letter in the post!" he shouted. "Addressed to the 'Opera Ghost' c/o the Paris Opera House. Don't tell me he's getting fan mail!"

I could hear Firmen sigh. "Perhaps…it could be from Mademoiselle Daee."

"You mean Vicomtess de Chagney."

"Of course," Firmen acquiesced. "You don't think she would correspond with him again do you?"

"Who knows? I had rather grown comfortable with the fact that the Ghost had left us since the chandelier incident."

"Remember, Andre, he had left us alone for three months before he showed himself at the masquerade."

"Will we ever be rid of this menace?"

I laughed softly. _No, gentlemen, I fear I will be here for a very long time._

"Well, what should we do with the letter?" Andre asked.

Firmen settled behind his desk. "Throw it away. The last thing he needs is a supporter."

I heard the infamous letter drop into the rubbish. Making my way under the floorboards, I pushed back the board next to the basket. Careful to make sure neither one of the managers saw me, I quickly grabbed the bottom of the basket and lowered it into the hidden passageway with me. Anxiously I drew the top letter out and stared at the handwriting.

My heart fell when I realized that the handwriting was not Christine's. I went to put it back into the rubbish bin when a sudden urge to keep the letter overcame the dark depression that had filled me once more. Against my better judgement, I slipped the letter into my pocket and left the rubbish bin in the passageway.

Nadir was waiting for me when I returned from my "inspection." He didn't look up at me when I entered the disaster stricken living room, most likely because he was trying to piece back together _Don Juan Triumphant_. I sat down in the black leather wing back chair that had survived the anguished destruction of my home. I pulled out the letter and stared down at the handwriting in curiosity.

"What's that, Erik?"

"It's a letter, Daroga."

Nadir fixed me with an incredulous stare. "I can see it's a letter. Who is it from?"

"I don't know. The post mark is in Italian."

"Do you know anyone in Italy?"

Another wave of sadness came over me. "I did."

"Aren't you going to read it?"

I sighed. "I don't know."

Nadir remained strangely quiet and returned to his painstaking task. I felt so numb inside, that despite the fact that I didn't want to see him piece together my masterpiece, I lacked the words to stop him. It was such a waste of twenty years. Even the name had become bitter in my mind for I was not triumphant. Christine was far from me by now; I did not know where the Vicomte had taken her. Far from France, I was certain of that. Perhaps she was in Italy.

My heart gave a joyful start. Perhaps…her maid wrote this! Yes, that was it! Her maid wrote this so Chaney wouldn't recognize his wife's handwriting. She was writing to me to come save her from the mundane life that her "darling" had forced upon her and was longing for her Angel of Music once more. After all this heartbreak and dark despair, I did reign triumphant! With a sense of smug satisfaction, I ripped open the envelope and began to hungrily read over the words.

_ Opera Ghost,_

_ Forgive me for being so bold, but I am currently in search of a man by the name of Erik. My father was Giovanni Forchia, a master mason in Rome, Italy. On my father's deathbed, he spoke of an apprentice that he had for only three years, but it was the manner with which he spoke of this boy that caught my attention. There was such an admiration for this boy that fascinated me. Years later, I find myself in need of a capable and trust-worthy contractor. If my father was correct in his appraisal of your abilities, then you had the means to assist me._

_ I would be lying if I did not speak of my serious misgivings concerning this letter. The idea of a man who drops a chandelier and abducts a lead soprano does not make for a flawless resume. But the manner in which my father spoke of this masked boy by the name of Erik leads me to believe that the newspapers had once again blown an incident out of proportion. Or it may be that you are not the man that I am searching for. If this is indeed the case, then I am terribly sorry for wasting your time.. _

_ Sophia Forchia_

An intense wave of rage over came me. Standing up, I crushed the letter in my hand and hurled it across the room with an inhuman cry. It wasn't Christine. I wasn't triumphant at all. The letter was just another one of God's cruel tricks on me, showing me in the wake of my defeat that I had made other terrible decisions in my life. I was responsible for the destruction of not one, but two innocent women.

Luciana.

Christine. Who was next to suffer at my hand?

Fury had taken over once more and my eyes searched for something else to destroy but there was nothing left. I had already taken care of properly dismantling my home. Sometimes I hated how thorough I was. My breathing had accelerated and I briefly wondered if another seizer would render me lifeless.

"Erik?"

My eye rested on Nadir. Concern was etched in his face and in that moment I hated him. I hated the fact that he nursed me through an immanent death. I hated him for being my friend and showing me kindness. I hated him for trying to salvage my masterpiece. I screamed a curse and upturned the table where he was putting the manuscript back together. He merely looked at me in pity and I felt the burning sensation of tears once more.

I hated him for being here when it should have been Christine.


	3. Do Ghosts Cry?

Disclaimer: Don't own Phantom. Making no money. Please don't sue.

A/U: Yeah for snow! Two chapters up in one day!

Chapter Three: Do Ghosts Cry?

Nadir

I knew when he stood up he was in another rage. I merely sat there and decided to just wait it out. He hadn't had an outburst in a very long time. Perhaps, in its own weird way, this was a good sign. It was only when I heard his labored breathing that concern caused me to look up at him.

"Erik?"

His eyes fixed on me and I could see the hatred in them. Reasonably I knew that I was not the one that he was angry at, but the way in which he was looking at me I feared for my life. I watched in horror as he yelled an obscenity and overthrew the table in front of me. I quickly stood and retreated to the back of the couch, putting it between him and me. It seemed the movement brought him back to his senses and his eyes glistened and he fell to his knees.

I had seen him weep before. Ever since his obsession with Daae started, he was given to bouts of crying and terrible moods. But this was different. This was more than just a love sick man pining for a love he could not have. As I watched him wrap his thin arms around his equally thin frame, I realized this was a broken spirit.

"I loved her, Nadir."

It had been weeks since he had used my given name. Ever since that night I had been merely Daroga to him. I took comfort in hearing my name from him again. I did not know what I had done to regain favor in his eyes again, but I was thankful I was no longer "Daroga."

"I know you did, Erik." I made my way over to him and sat on the red carpet next to him. "Christine knew that too."

He shook his head. "No…not Christine."

To say the confession shocked me would be a gross understatement. I wracked my mind, trying to remember a time when he had mentioned a woman in the conversation. The only other woman I could remember was his mother, and I knew he felt no love for her. But it was the letter from Italy that sparked this outburst. And he never spoke about his ventures there.

"Who, Erik?"

"Luciana."

The name came out like a whisper, dripping with regret and pain. I crept closer towards him. My hand touched a cold, wet spot on the Persian carpet where his tears had fallen. His shoulders were still shaking but the tears seemed to have subsided.

"Who was Luciana?"

He took in a shaky breath. "She was his daughter. Giovanni was his name. I studied masonry and architecture under him. He was the first one to ever show me kindness and I didn't know how to react."

"How old were you?"

"When he took me in I was thirteen. I left when I was fifteen. She was the same age as me. I had no understanding of love." He let out a bitter laugh. "I suppose I still don't."

His reasoning seemed to be returning and I retreated a couple feet from him. "What happened?"

"I wanted to please her, but I didn't know how. She demanded everything of me and I didn't know how to give her anything. It was night when she asked me clearly for one thing. And I gave it to her."

My mouth had gone dry. "What was it?"

"She wanted to see my face. It enraged me only because Giovanni insisted that I do what she asked. I felt betrayed. Anger took over. I ripped the mask off, and she saw. I'll never forget the look on her face. The utter horror…she fled from me, or at least tried to. I knew the masonry was loose…I don't know why I didn't stop her from leaning on it. She backed up against it, trying to get away from me when it gave way…I can still hear it to this day."

"She died?"

Erik mutely nodded his head.

Immense pity washed over me. His own mother gave him a mask to cover his face and all he ever received from the world was their desire to see what was under the mask. Perhaps that was why we were friends. Not once had I asked to see what was beneath the mask. I respected him too much to ask such a question. But I also understood that curiosity often came before respect.

"Surely you don't blame yourself for that?" I told him that, hoping that it would give him some solace. "It was an accident, Erik."

"Sure it was," he said with a hint of coldness. "Just as the chandelier was an accident, right?"

"Erik, please."

"You're right," he wearily acknowledged. "I'm sorry you're stuck with such a dark creature as your friend."

"I'm getting used to it," I said, getting to my feet and dragging Erik with me. I figured it was safe now to ask about the letter. "Who was the letter from?"

Erik picked the table up effortlessly and set it back in front of the couch before returning to his chair. "The letter was from one of Giovanni's other daughters. Apparently she's carrying on her father's business but is having complications."

"What sort of complications?"

Erik shrugged. "She didn't say. I'm not even sure if she really exists. Giovanni never spoke of his other daughters to me."

I retrieved the crumbled piece of paper from across the room and unfolded it. Quickly I read through it and found it to be sincere. She spoke of Erik as a masked boy, which he would have been. She recognized that he only spent three years of an apprenticeship, which only someone in the family would have known. I had to admit that it took a highly intelligent woman to connect the Opera House disaster to Erik. But I suppose I did the same thing when I had found Erik in Russia.

"I think you should write her back."

Erik gave me a shocked and skeptical look that the mask could not hide. "You must be joking?"

"You can't stay here forever, Erik."

"Why not? I built this house with the full intention of staying here for the rest of my days. Surely I don't have that many days left."

I folded the letter neatly, and left it on the table in front of him. "Think about it. If you stay here, you're surrounded by memories that you would care to forget. I know you better than you think. You regret what happened with Daae and the Vicomte. You've done all that you can here in the Opera. I believe you will die soon if you stay."

"And I'll live longer if I leave?" he remarked.

"Yes. I believe you've survived for so long because you kept pushing yourself for many years. You've become stagnant in your knowledge and travels."

His gaze roved over the destroyed room and I sincerely hoped that he took my words to heart. From the first time I had met him, it was his constant search for knowledge that impressed me greatly. I had seen that slowly ebb away from him and I feared it would be his undoing. But I also doubted my role in this encouragement. If knowledge was power, then I was encouraging the most powerful man to acquire even more power. It was possible I was pushing another tragedy upon him, myself and the world. May Allah forgive me if that was the case. Erik seemed to have reached his decision and stood up, rubbing his long-fingered hands together.

"How soon can you be ready to go to Italy, Daroga?"

"What?! Erik, have you lost your mind?"

He laughed with true delight, a sound I thought I would never hear again and wasn't so sure I pleased to heed.

"You can't possibly intend to stay in Paris while I go off to Italy to meet this woman?" he pressed.

"Erik, I'm too old for this childishness."

"And I'm not too old for this childishness, as you put it?"

I sighed in defeat. The last thing I wanted was to travel with this irritating man again. Once from Russia to Persia was quite enough for me.

"I didn't think you to be one to go back on your promises, Daroga."

I merely stared at him with unhidden contempt. Only Erik would bring a threat to light and show it as a promise. I suppose it was just his unending plight to see how many things in this life he could twist to his purpose. I had promised to watch him for the rest of his days, to ensure that he never killed again. There really was no choice in the matter for me, Erik had seen to that.

"Give me three days, Erik. I'll be ready by then."


End file.
